


Now You Wanna Kiss Me

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Closing in Closer to You [5]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Light Bondage, Open Relationships, Porn With Plot, Spanking, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7884184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their sex life was never going to be regular: the control freak and the man who should never be controlled - simultaneously an antithesis and a complement to each other, both inside and outside the bedroom. Yet when the Doctor's interest in Clara's rather singular tastes begins to wane, she decides to take action - distinctly <em>human</em> action - to win him back. Making a man jealous is the oldest and most successful trick in the book... or at least, it is when your husband isn't a Time Lord who's one step ahead of the game, and determined to make you lose control...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now You Wanna Kiss Me

**Author's Note:**

> Part five is finally here! It's been finished for a while, but I've only just got round to posting it, my bad. If angst really isn't your thing, skip down to the first lot of italics and take it from there... otherwise, you're all good. 
> 
> Huge thank you to Colinzeal and Lostboy for the ideas that grew into this fic. You guys are awesome, and I hope you enjoy this.

Clara was – although she would never have dared to admit it – somewhat bored with her life aboard the TARDIS, at least at this current moment in time. Space. Whatever. She rolled over in bed and nuzzled into her pillow, half-contemplating padding across the hallway to Rachel’s room and seeking amusement there, before she remembered abruptly that they’d dropped Rachel home two weeks ago, and thus her only available options were to seek out her husband or go to sleep. 

There were admittedly pros and cons to both options. If she sought out her husband, there was the high probability that she could coax him onto his knees, his mouth hot and warm on her cunt, within less than ten minutes of being in the room with him. Yet equally, there was the likelihood that he might just talk _at_ her instead, reducing her to a further state of boredom that she mentally cringed from the prospect of, thus she wasn’t entirely certain that going looking for him was a risk worth taking. She could order him into silence, of course, but of late she’d found his enthusiasm for her taking charge to be changing, and so she pushed the idea away, contenting herself instead with squirming into a more comfortable position in bed, gazing up at the ceiling of her room and sighing deeply.

It wasn’t even that he was _unwilling_ , necessarily. When she took charge of him, she saw how his cock twitched and grew harder, she saw how the lust in his eyes distilled into something raw and primal. It was – perhaps – that he had grown far too compliant for her tastes, Clara preferring instead when he had argued with her and pushed back against her control, forcing her hand into punishing him until his arse was red-raw and her hand stung, and he was moaning her name into the pillow she had pushed under him to prevent his gangly limbs from collapsing askew. Now, he was quiet and meek with her, barely emitting a whimper, and she missed the sting of her hand on his skin, missed the way he begged her desperately to permit him to come, missed the reverence with which he sighed her name. He who had once been the Warrior, the Oncoming Storm, was reduced to nothing more than a quiet and reverent murmur of “Clara” when she took him in her hands, and she sighed again as she realised that she missed the struggle for power that had occurred in the early days.

She could mention it to him, of course. She could tell him, quietly, with a soft murmur in his ear, that she wanted him to fight her, to argue back, to refuse to yield to her so obediently. She knew he would cede to her will at once, pliant and eager to please, but somehow… somehow she found the idea inorganic. He had to make that change himself – had to pick up on what she wanted – what she craved, what made her wetter – and use that to work with her to achieve what they both wanted. She tried to tell herself it was simply because she wanted him to be intuitive, but she knew that a part of her wanted to test him, thus her own stubbornness would prevent her from ever discussing the matter with him, instead opting to quietly brood and hope for the best. 

Because the fact of the matter was, they didn’t discuss the things they did any more. In the early days, there had been long post-coital discussions with cups of tea and toast, in which he would offer her quiet, shy feedback on what they had done. His ears would redden as he stammered over unfamiliar words, un-Doctory words like _cunt_ and _spanking,_ and she would smirk a little as she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed kisses to his skin, ensuring he was safe and content with their boundaries. Now, there was only silence each evening, as she applied lotion to his skin with cool hands and kissed him mechanically, as much a ritual as their daily exploits, and she feared that perhaps he was growing increasingly less enamoured with not only her proclivities, but with her in general.

Cowed by the force of his silence and his apathy, Clara had long since ceased to seek out her echoes or other women to bed. Rachel had been the only exception of late, and whereas Clara’s extra-marital affairs had once been a source of arousal, a form of foreplay as she told the Doctor in lascivious, explicit detail what she had done, with Rachel laid between them in the TARDIS, there had been little need for words to explain what he could see, could _sense,_ and thus instead Clara had felt an increasing sense of shame, even as Rachel slipped from her bed to the Time Lord’s and back again. Finally, she had snapped, and in a fit of pained self-hatred she had banished Rachel back to her own time, trying to ignore the Doctor’s bewildered look as the girl stalked through the TARDIS half-dressed, a suitcase in hand, and slammed out the doors without a glance back.

Since then, things had only increasingly soured. Though they might fuck, they barely spoke; though they saved worlds, there was little elation in their triumphs. Clara’s hopes were pinned on the Doctor’s ability to read her thoughts and change his ways, although she knew in reality that there was little chance when their lives had become only functionally intertwined, as each sought physical release in a shared bed before returning to whence they came, skulking in their separate bedrooms, as Clara worried unceasingly that she was losing favour with the Time Lord who had once so adored her. 

She shed – not for the first time – a handful of tears as she contemplated the prospect, her makeup smearing across the sheets as she burrowed into them in an instinctual search of comfort. He had professed to love her once, but now he barely even seemed to _like_ her. His touches were perfunctory, necessary, clinical; his words were submissive, certainly, but lacking in an emotion she had once so revelled in being the source of. He was a shadow. He was withdrawing from her. He was – despite all his fervid denials – infallibly _human_ in his mannerisms with her now: a touch bored of her, certainly; a tad unwilling to hold her hand; somewhat sharper with her when they bothered to speak at all. She knew the signs well enough, and she twirled the wedding band upon her finger as she curled up and hugged her legs tightly.

It was then, in a moment of bleakest despair, that she realised the solution to her woes. If her Time Lord – for he was, regardless of his disposition to behave like a prat, nevertheless _her_ Time Lord – was so willing to behave in a way that was distinctly human, then she would respond, in kind, with a human trick. One that seemed almost infantile in its very nature, but one that had proven unerringly effective in her younger years, as she fought to keep the attention of those who sought to bed her.

Rolling over in bed, she grabbed her phone and grimaced at her reflection in the screen, resolving to do something about the state of her face before she permitted any further part of her plan to unfold. Scrolling through her contacts, she wondered idly if the person she sought would even respond to her text, whether they too had assimilated the human idea of “fuck and chuck,” or whether the summons Clara was about to send would prove enough to pique their interest.

 _Back at_ that _club. 21 st September, 2017. Seven pm. Winner takes all._

She waited then, fingers drumming impatiently against the bed as she felt nervous anticipation building in her chest and – despite herself – between her legs, the prospect tingling through her deliciously as she chewed on her lip. The reply came almost at once. 

 _Is this anything to do with making him jealous? Hmm?_

The response made her gasp aloud, laughing a little breathlessly as she realised that of course they would understand, that of course they would know what she was aiming to do, and she typed out an assertion before she could stop herself. 

 _Of course. Are you in? xxx_

She closed her eyes, entertaining the idea of dipping one hand between her legs to alleviate a little of the growing pressure there, before dismissing the idea with some considerable willpower, opting instead to wait and thus allow her anticipation to build. 

 _I’ll be the winner, you know. Do dress appropriately, pet, I know how you humans feel the cold… and the heat._  

Clara’s heart leapt and she sprung out of bed, padding over to her wardrobe on silent feet as she considered what might be seen as _appropriate_ to wear to a sex club. Black, certainly – that much was undeniable. She plucked a bra from a drawer and cast off her pyjamas, fumbling the clasps of the lace garment as she put it on in haste, hunting around until she found a matching pair of frothy, satin French knickers and she slipped them up her legs, shivering as the cool fabric met the growing wetness between her legs.

She worried her lip pensively as she contemplated an idea and then allowed them to fall to the floor, pulling on a suspender belt before placing the knickers back on over the top, admiring the effect in her full length mirror, twirling experimentally. Pleased, she reached for a pair of stockings she was moderately certain she had picked up in the late 1920s, rolling each one on with the utmost care and attaching it slowly and deliberately to the suspender belt, making sure the straps were perfectly parallel and the tops were level, checking obsessively until she was satisfied with the result. She had to admit, the overall aesthetic was striking. Her arse, rounded and soft, clad in satin, giving way to the pale, gentle curves of her thighs, the stark alabaster of her skin broken up by the black bars of the suspender straps. She ran her finger over one, humming slightly in appreciation, and then turned her attention back to the formerly neatly-made up mess that was her face. 

Scrubbing away the smeared remains of her eyeliner and the vestiges of her lipstick, her fingers dithered over the drawer that contained her cosmetics, opting eventually for a blacker-than-black kohl pencil and a deep crimson lipstick, fulfilling every cliché she could contemplate but hardly caring as she applied both with a marginally shaky hand. She smirked a little at her reflection, pouting exaggeratedly, and then pulled a simple black dress from her wardrobe and tugged it on. The loose fabric hid what lay beneath, hid her figure, hid almost everything that could be reasonably considered _provocative_ , but she still knew that her date would take great joy in ripping it away from her as easily as wrapping paper, already picturing their satisfied grin when they saw what lay beneath. 

Finally settling on a pair of heels that made her appear a good four inches taller, Clara smiled at her reflection with contentment, turning a little to make a final check that she looked perfect from all angles. Happy with what she saw, she opened her bedroom door a crack, slipping out into the corridor and immediately regretting her choice of footwear as her shoes clacked loudly with each step, thus she moved onto the balls of her feet, creeping into the console room and programming the coordinates she had long since memorised. She disengaged the handbrake and watched the central column begin to rise and fall, feeling her heartrate begin to accelerate in unison with the wheezing of the TARDIS. She was really doing this. She was really risking everything in the hopes that this plan would work. 

There was a quiet, dull thud that matched the pounding of the blood in her ears, and a beeping of the console in what might have been a cautionary way, but Clara only patted the cool metal consolingly before stepping outside and into the darkness of their destination, peering around the gloom and feeling apprehension settle over her unexpectedly. 

“Hello,” came an icily familiar voice, startling her momentarily. “I see you managed to land on time, then? That’s one up on the old man. You’re getting quite proficient for a puppy. Must be all those training classes.” 

“I think that was a compliment,” Clara mused, closing the doors behind her and allowing her eyes to adjust to the blackness, locating the speaker and poking her tongue out in their direction. “So thanks.” 

“It wasn’t,” Missy said, pushing herself up from the booth in which she had been sat and approaching Clara with a hungry glint in her eyes, visibly impressed by what she saw. “Look at you. So beautifully dressed for Mistress. There’s just one thing you’ve forgotten though.”

“Oh,” Clara said, immediately knowing what Missy was referring to and feeling a swooping sense of irrational guilt, wondering how she could have overlooked something so fundamental. “My mist-” 

Missy’s hand came down on her arse unexpectedly, stinging even through two layers of fabric, and Clara sucked in a sharp breath at the contact, the sensation entirely unfamiliar to her. “Now now,” Missy cooed. “It’s too late to fetch it now, isn’t it? I have a much nicer one for you to wear, don’t you worry that silly little nano-brain. You just be a good girl and take off your dress for Missy, how about that?” 

“How about you make me?” Clara asked defiantly, and she gasped as Missy spanked her again, a touch harder. 

“Have it your way then, dearie,” Missy said sweetly, and a moment later Clara felt something cool and metallic running down her spine, and her dress fell away, the back neatly severed in two. “There. Oh, now look at you. Making such an _effort._ Such a needy little slut.” 

“I… sorry, what?” Clara asked, blinking a little at the casual way the epithet rolled off Missy’s tongue. “What did you…” 

“All dressed up like that,” the Time Lady continued, as though Clara had not spoken. “A little human slut, all ready to get shagged.” 

“I…” Clara attempted again, but she felt a shiver travel through her and she bit back any further retorts, unused to being on the receiving end of such language but finding herself inexplicably aroused by the crudeness of the words. “Look, I’m not going to just stand here and take this, you know?”

“You’re taking it now,” Missy noted with a small shrug. “And, if I’m not very much mistaken, liking it.” 

“Oh for fuck sake,” Clara muttered to herself, before raising her voice fractionally and adding: “How the hell would you know that? You’d better not say you can _smell_ me _,_ because that’s just creepy.” 

“Smell you?” Missy wrinkled her nose distastefully at the idea. “No, I’m not that advanced, poppet. Your brain is leaking, that’s all. Oh so loudly, and oh so deliciously. So, do you know what? Instead of eavesdropping, I think we should have a nice drink before we get down to business. Some girly chat. How would that be?” 

Clara bit back a tiny moan at the prospect of waiting, at the idea of being denied immediate access to what she craved. _Oh,_ she realised abruptly. _This must be what it’s like for him._ “Fine,” she said in a small voice. “What kind of drink?” 

“Well, this place isn’t run by total primitives, you know? I think they’ve got wine, spirits… all the kinds of things depraved little humans enjoy before they engage in sordid activities. Now, I believe your poison of choice is wine, so…” Missy reached behind the bar and poured a glass, handing it to Clara and indicating she should take a seat. “Do enjoy.” 

“What about you?” Clara asked faintly, as she perched on the edge of a leather bar stool, the cool of it biting at her thighs. “Are you like him in that you don’t drink, or…” 

“I’m much less dull than your pet Time Lord,” Missy said scathingly, reaching for a bottle of Scotch and pouring herself a generous measure. “It doesn’t do much for me, but I do so enjoy the social aspect of things.” She took a long draught before leaning forwards and placing her hand on Clara’s thigh intimately, grinning a little at the way the human woman shifted in an attempt to defuse her arousal. “Don’t you?” 

“Fuck you,” Clara breathed, taking a sip of the wine in order to avoid having to look at Missy, feeling the alcohol beginning to warm her stomach. “That’s just unfair.” 

“Unfair, pet?” Missy looked at her with wide eyes and feigned innocence. “I don’t think you know the meaning of unfair. If I was to be unfair, I’d be doing this.” She hitched her hand fractionally higher, fingertips stroking small circles on the bare expanse of skin above Clara’s suspenders, noting with satisfaction the way the younger woman moaned under her breath, her hand trembling on her glass of wine. “Keep sipping, dear. Or else I’ll stop.”

Clara took another two sips and closed her eyes, the sensation of Missy’s fingers simultaneously both overwhelming and underwhelming her, and she squirmed slightly on her stool, trying to edge the Time Lady’s hand higher, silently willing her fingers closer to her clit. She was determined that she would not beg. She would not permit herself to sink to that level of desperation, she would not allow herself to plead to be touched. Missy’s hand circled higher as she took another sip, then danced away to trace at the edge of her stockings, and a whimper left Clara before she could impede it, the words slipping out before she could stop herself. “Please,” she implored, hating herself for the word. “Please…” 

“Please _what_?” Missy asked dangerously, scowling at Clara until she took another gulp of wine in an attempt to combat her ragged breathing. “Talk to me, pet. Tell me what you want.” 

“Please touch me,” Clara said at once, her self-control waning with each passing minute. “Please, _fuck_ , please touch me, that’s all I want, that’s all... please, touch me…” 

Missy smiled sweetly, leaning forward to peck Clara’s cheek. “No,” she murmured. “Not until we’re done socialising. Do you understand me?” 

“Missy,” Clara begged, the hand holding her glass trembling violently. “Please, I just… please, Missy…”

“No,” the Time Lady reiterated, pulling away from Clara completely and leaning one elbow on the bar. “We’re just going to have a nice chat. Just us girls. So, how’s our favourite mutual friend?” 

“He’s…” Clara muttered a curse under her breath, fighting to regain her composure before continuing in a somewhat strangled tone: “A pain in the arse. Bored with me, probably.” 

“Well you are only human, in the most literal sense,” Missy observed drily, earning herself a glare from Clara in retaliation. “What? You are. It’s not _his_ fault that you’re rather dull. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s off finding himself a nice-” 

The contents of Clara’s wine glass splashed her in the face abruptly, the younger woman rising to her feet to scowl wholeheartedly at the Time Lady. “How dare you?” she asked coldly. “How dare you say that to me, how dare you insinuate that-” 

“And there’s the fire,” Missy said with bitter satisfaction, watching Clara’s hand swish towards her in an attempt at a slap but catching her wrist easily. “Play nicely, dear.”

“Or what?” Clara snarled, but Missy only smirked at her placidly for a moment, her eyes cold and condescending. “Go on. Do something evil.” 

“Evil?” the Time Lady arched an eyebrow. “Oh, in the bedroom I don’t do evil. I do diabolical.” She leant forward fractionally, letting go of Clara’s wrist as she reached into a pocket of her jacket and took out a dark leather collar, stiff and inflexible, clasping it around the human woman’s neck before she could respond or attempt to counter the action by pulling away. “There. A nice new collar for you.”

“It’s making a weird noise,” Clara noted suspiciously, narrowing her eyes at Missy, one hand rising to touch the material. “Why is it making that noise?”

“That’ll be the locking mechanism, dear,” the Time Lady smiled sweetly in a way undoubtedly intended to be reassuring. “Don’t you worry about that. Worry about this.”

“About wh-” Clara was cut off by the collar, which vibrated fractionally before sprouting two long, fine silver chains, both of which wrapped themselves securely around her wrists, binding them both together and to her neck. “Urm. I’m not… sure about this.”

“The bondage?” 

“The weird growing-things collar,” Clara detailed, frowning slightly. “It’s a bit…”

“Clever, isn’t it?” Missy enthused, cutting Clara off. “The chains will stretch if I want them to – so if I wanted to bind those tiny hands to a bedpost, they’d permit that. But other than that, you can tug away and all that’ll happen will be a lovely purple bruise around that pretty throat of yours.” 

Clara could only glower in response, unwilling to admit how aroused being bound made her. In her exploration of her proclivities, she had never seen much point in being restrained herself, too intent on subjecting others to her will and watching them capitulate to her in submission, but she had to admit that the subversion of roles excited her, and she gave a gentle tug on her chains, feeling them give only minutely, the collar around her neck shifting as she did so. 

“That’s a good little girl. Now, seeing as you were so _rude_ to Mistress,” Missy spoke softly as she stood, hooking one finger under Clara’s collar and leading her to the centre of the bar area, pacing around her intently. “I should think that maybe you’re deserving of a little punishment, no? A little reminder of what bad little sluts get when they misbehave.” 

Clara eyed Missy warily, thumbs and fingers twisting together in contemplation as she tried to distract herself, tried to stop herself from giving in and playing Missy’s game. “Like what?” 

“Like, oh… a spanking?” Missy watched Clara’s face as she spoke, watched the way that shock was replaced with curiosity and then arousal. “You aren’t used to being spanked, are you? That’s more the Doctor’s forte.” No reply was forthcoming. “ _Answer me_.” 

“You are correct,” Clara said at once, stumbling only slightly over her words. “It’s… I’ve never really…”

“Those ridiculous knickers will stay on,” Missy decided. “I will spank you over them, and that will break you in gently. If you misbehave further, I will remove them, and then you will be punished again. You will count each blow. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” Clara concurred, and with that, Missy’s hand came down on her arse, her palm stinging through the satin of her underwear. “One.” 

“Good girl,” Missy praised, saccharine-sweet. “We’ll go to five.”

She struck her again, and Clara said “two” as clearly as she was able. 

“There, see? Not so terrible. You rather like this, don’t you?” 

Her hand came down for a third time, and Clara moaned the word “three,” feeling herself grow wetter, the heat of Missy’s hand on her arse being met with the heat of a blush that was creeping over her skin. The lack of control was exhilarating, the ceding of power enough to cause her legs to tremble where she stood, and she cursed her choice of footwear. 

“Getting shaky?” Missy asked, spanking Clara again, a little further between her legs, and the younger woman gasped aloud, the word “four” almost lost in a whimper.

As Missy’s hand made contact with her arse for the final time, Clara lurched forward slightly, her knees threatening to give way as she gasped “five” with both relieved and disappointed finality, the Time Lady’s arm wrapping securely around her waist before she could hit the floor.

“Now then, dear. I think we need a restorative lie down, wouldn’t you agree? Yes? A nice comfy bed?”

Clara nodded, ignoring the connotations and allowing herself to be led by the chains to a bedroom she dimly recognised from her previous visit, Missy’s hands coaxing her to sit on the edge of a majestic bed, before slipping down Clara’s legs to undo her high heels and throw them aside. 

“Better?” Missy asked, and Clara nodded again, her thoughts clearing, and she attempted to scoot backwards as she eyed Missy warily, but the Time Lady only gripped her thighs tightly, pinning her where she was. “No, you’ve got one too many items of clothing on, pet,” she murmured, slipping her hands under the waistband of Clara’s knickers and tugging them easily down. “Look at these. Sopping wet. You really did enjoy being a depraved little slut, didn’t you? Being wanton?” 

“Y-yes,” Clara stammered uncertainly, as Missy pouted, leaning down and kissing her roughly, biting down on her bottom lip. “Missy…” 

“Oh, you want me to fuck you, am I right?” the Time Lady asked in a jovial tone, pulling away from Clara and tilting her head to one side questioningly. “Would you like that? Hmm?”

“Please,” Clara gasped, as Missy kissed her again, trailing her lips from her lips to her jaw and from her jaw to her throat, sucking lightly at the skin above her collarbone. “Please, Missy…”

“Now you see,” Missy explained patiently, as though she were speaking to a small child, kissing Clara languidly as she unhooked the human’s bra. “You aren’t in control here.” 

“I…” Clara exhaled as Missy unbound her hands to slip the expensive item off and cast it aside. “I know.” 

“So you aren’t the one who gets to make _demands_ ,” Missy expanded, pushing Clara further back onto the bed, kissing down her sternum as she did so. “Not this time.” 

Clara felt the chains from her collar snaking around her arms, moving them upwards and twisting securely around the bedposts, rendering her bound and helpless to Missy’s will. “I… I know,” she repeated nervously, hissing as Missy’s tongue wrapped around her nipple. “You are.” 

“Me?” the Time Lady said with some surprise, sitting up and laughing lightly, appearing infuriatingly composed despite the situation. “I’m not the one in charge here.” 

A shadow fell across Clara, and she craned her head back to take in the new arrival, feeling her heart still as they spoke, the familiar voice causing arousal to pool between her legs as she gasped in shock. 

“I am,” the Doctor said coldly, and Missy smiled at him, standing up and brushing herself down carefully. “Thank you for warming her up for me, Missy.”

“My pleasure,” Missy cooed. “Honestly, it doesn’t take much. She enjoys this kind of thing quite as much as you.” 

He quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?” he asked, turning his attention down to Clara, the intensity of his gaze causing her breath to hitch. “Is that so, Clara?” His eyes roved over her bound and spread figure, alighting between her legs as a smirk twisted across his face.

“Y-yes,” she stammered, attempting to close her legs slightly, to avert his gaze from her, for she felt bare before him, despite her stockings. “I do. I think.”

“You _think_?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, his palms coming to rest on her thighs, and Missy sighed a little regretfully. 

“I’d love to stay and watch but… planets to conquer, that sort of thing. Do enjoy yourself, Doctor.” She kissed him on the cheek lightly before tripping buoyantly from the room, leaving the Doctor and Clara alone together. 

“So, you _think_ you like being tied up like this?” he asked, his tone harsh and unfamiliar. “You like being tied up the way you so enjoy doing to me?” 

“Yes,” Clara admitted unwillingly, attempting to push against his hands and close her legs. “Please…” 

“Do you not like to be spread like this?” he asked her, unmoving, his thumbs beginning to trace patterns on her damp thighs. “Do you not like to be at the mercy of another?” 

She whimpered, driving her hips upwards, craving more of his touch. “I want…” 

“You do not get to want,” he informed her coldly. “You are here tonight for me. That is all. If you are good, and you behave, I may permit you to come.” 

“I…” 

“Is that understood?” he asked, and she nodded weakly, dizzy at the prospect of him fucking her like this. “Good. I enjoy these stockings. You will wear these more often for me. They’re much better than those tights you favour. Much easier access.” 

“I can do that,” Clara managed, as he released her thighs and slipped off his jacket, beginning to undo his shirt buttons slowly. “I can definitely do that.”

“Good,” he said curtly, casting the garment aside and unbuckling his belt. “There will be nights on the TARDIS where I will ask you to wait for me in my bedchamber like this. You are not to touch yourself. You are simply to wait for me there.” 

“I understand,” she said at once, licking her lips as he stepped out of his trousers and peeled off his socks. “What are you going to do?” she chanced, at which his head snapped up and his eyes bored into hers fiercely.

“I’m going to tease you,” he said softly, approaching the bed in his boxers, the outline of his erect cock clearly visible through the dark material. “I’m going to tease you until you beg for my cock, then I’m going to fuck you, and if you please me, I might let you come.”

Clara whimpered softly as he leant down and kissed her, one of his hands tracing a line from her hip to her breast, and he palmed her nipple harshly, undoubtedly enjoying her hissed response. “Doctor…” she pleaded. “Is this… _fuck_ , is this…” 

“You will not ask me questions,” he instructed firmly, kicking his boxers off inelegantly and slipping one hand between her thighs, thumb strumming lightly over her clit. “Unless that question regards your permission to come.” 

“But-”

He kissed her again then, kissed her silent, biting down on her bottom lip and moving to straddle her, his cock pressed against her stomach as his thumb worked against her clit torturously slowly. Unable to speak, unable to concentrate on anything other than the Time Lord pinning her to the bed, Clara threw her head back and sucked in a breath as the Doctor’s lips strayed down her throat, sucking at the skin in the same manner that Missy had, running his tongue over the expanse of skin where her shoulder met her neck before biting down, hard enough to mark her.

“You are mine,” he told her firmly, unrelenting in his motions. “What are you?” 

“Yours,” she reiterated, arching her hips upwards against his in search of friction. “Your Clara.” 

“Good girl,” he smirked down at her, pushing her hips back down on the bed and slipping two fingers inside her, using her capitulation to his will to keep her where she was as she attempted to buck against him. “Patience, Clara.”

“I don’t wanna be patient,” she whined, moaning as his thumb recommenced circling her clit. “I want you, now.” 

“I don’t think you understood me when I told you that you are not in control, Clara.” 

“I understood, I just don’t-” 

He pushed into her unexpectedly, silencing her protests as her mouth rounded into a perfect “oh” of surprise. His hands cupped her cheeks as he kissed her, long and deep, stealing her breath away before he pulled away minutely and began to move against her slowly and intensely.

“Happy?” he asked gruffly, and she could only nod as he began to increase the pace of his thrusts, concentrating on his own pleasure, kissing Clara deeply as often has he could, keeping her breathless and unsated, hair ruffled and lipstick smudged, as she moaned his name and wrapped her legs around him.

When he came, it was unexpected and quiet, and Clara whimpered as she realised what had happened, accustomed as she was to being the first to climax, caring little for the thought of being left wanting. “Did you want something?” he asked her, and she moaned wordlessly, unable to form enough of a coherent thought to request what she needed. “Clara?” 

“To come,” she whispered, desperate to seek release. “Please.” 

“Ask me _nicely_ ,” he commanded, stroking a thumb over her cheek in a deliberately juxtaposed act of gentleness that elicited a shudder in response. “Go on.”

“Please may I come, Doctor?” she managed, looking up at him with wide, dark eyes, and he nodded once, slipping a hand between them to rest on her clit as he began to thrust once more. 

When she came, her hair spread over the pillow, eyes closed, head thrown back, she felt something change between them – a slight shift in power, a new dynamic – and when she opened her eyes to look at him, she could tell at once that his dominance had fallen away and she looked upon _her_ Doctor, raw and unguarded.

“Hello,” she said softly, as he pulled out of her and sat up to remove her collar. “Thanks.” 

“Are you OK?” he asked as he fumbled with the leather, hands shaking, eventually succeeding in undoing the clasp and lifting it away from her throat, the chains receding as he did so. “Sore?” 

“Bit sore,” she confessed, rolling her arms experimentally and avoiding looking at him, edging away fractionally to rub at her right shoulder with her left hand. “But otherwise fine.”

“Not fine,” he discerned, reaching over to massage her shoulders, and she flinched at his touch, pulling away from him, noting the hurt in his eyes. “Clara?” 

“Just… just don’t try and pretend everything is fine when it’s clearly not fine, OK?” she snapped, feeling her emotions come to a head. “Don’t try and act all loving and caring when you clearly don’t do either anymore.” 

“Is this about the sex?” he asked in bewilderment, not understanding. “I thought… I just wanted… did I hurt you?” 

“Yes!” she said angrily, then clarified at once: “But not with the bloody sex, not that, it’s…” and to her surprise, she burst into tears.

“Clara?!” he asked, sweeping her into his arms, ignoring her fists pounding weakly at his chest, feeling her arms still as she sobbed onto his bare shoulder, his hands stroking her hair reassuringly as she wept. “Clara, explain.” 

“I just… you bloody… it’s like… like we don’t even… you don’t even seem to _like_ me anymore, you barely talk to me, we just fuck and then go back to having separate lives. I don’t know what’s gone wrong but I hate it, I _hate_ it, and I want things to be better but I don’t know what to do, and I’m so sorry, I just… I know it’s… yeah.” 

“Know what?” he asked, his brows knitting together in confusion as he tried to process what she was telling him.

“I know it’s my fault, OK? So I’m sorry.” 

“ _Your_ fault?” he asked after a moment, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Nothing is ever your fault, Clara. Except that time you broke the washing machine. That _was_ your fault. Otherwise… Clara, I just feel… again, sometimes things are a bit… physical for me. I would like to just be with you. To hold you. Even when we have sex, sometimes… you forget it’s about the two of us and you take charge, you always take charge of things – no, before you look at me like that, you _do_ , it’s in your nature and you can’t help it – and it would nice to just sometimes make love, you know? As equals. Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Are you…” she considered her words carefully. “ _Scared_ of me sometimes?” 

“Most of the time,” he quipped, and she punched him lightly in the arm. “Hey! No, just occasionally. When you’re being… you know, dominating.” 

“Which is apparently always.”

“No!” he sighed. “Look… just… you can dominate me sometimes. And I’ll return the favour. But sometimes it’s nice to be equal. To talk. To love.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” Clara questioned, and he looked at her with genuine surprise, amazed that she hadn’t understood.

“Because I thought you wanted to be domineering. I thought if I said I didn’t always want to be domineered, you might… not want to be with me anymore.” 

“You daft old man,” she told him lovingly. “I love you, you know that? Just…” she sighed, unsure how to formulate her question and deciding to simply be blunt. “Do you love me still?” Clara asked, biting down on her lip in apprehension of his response. “Because lately…” 

“Of course I love you,” he told her gently, wrapping her more securely in his arms. “That’s why I felt I couldn’t tell you any of this… I just wanted you to be happy, Clara. Always. It’s just some nights I’d like to hold you, which being tied up kind of… impedes.” 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, feeling herself blushing as she understood his reticence. “So… maybe stick to dominating people who aren’t you?” 

“That would work, yeah,” he confessed. “Maybe sometimes me though. On Wednesdays.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed, kissing his cheek. “Daft old Time Lord. If you hadn’t set this up, would you have just moped forever?” 

“Maybe,” he muttered, turning crimson. “I don’t know. Perhaps. It was sort of a spontaneous thing. See if you liked it, see what became of it. Experimental. Science and all.” 

“You’re an idiot,” she chastised fondly. “But you’re my idiot. Got that?” 

“Got it,” he said obediently, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Back to the TARDIS sound like a plan?” 

“Is there a hot bath in it for me?” 

“Oh, definitely,” he grinned and got off the bed, reaching for his shirt only to have it snatched from his grasp by nimble fingers. “Hey!” 

“What?” Clara asked innocently, tugging it on and beginning to button it. “I can’t walk back to the TARDIS in my underwear.” 

“Well…” the Doctor grinned at her mischievously. “I certainly wouldn’t complain if you did.” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Never, boss.”


End file.
